Mrs. Tim Carries On

by D. E. Stevenson

  “You aren’t worried about Miriam, are you?”

  “Weel, maybe I am a wee bit pit oot . . . but it’s naething.”

  “What is it? Do tell me, Mrs. Craven.”

  “It’s naething serious,” declares Mrs. Craven earnestly. “It’s just that Miriam’s taken an awfu’ scunner at the man.”

  WEDNESDAY 6TH MARCH

  I am doing my morning shopping and run into Mrs. Benson coming out of Simpson’s. She is wearing a new hat—brick red and extremely modish—which does not suit her at all. In fact she looks so old and tired and dejected that my heart melts towards her and the hat seems pathetic rather than ludicrous. Mrs. Benson asks whether I have heard from Tim since he joined the Battalion and on being informed that I received a letter yesterday she enquires eagerly whether Tim “happened to mention the colonel”. I have read Tim’s letter so often that I know the contents by heart and am able to reply immediately that Tim did mention the colonel and said that he was extremely well and cheerful and that it was a great advantage to have such a capable C.O.

  Mrs. Benson says, “Very nice indeed,” and smiles quite amiably. She enquires for Bryan and Betty and asks if I will bring the latter to tea with her this afternoon. The invitation is rather a shock, for I am aware that Betty is never at her best with the colonel’s wife—I remember the occasion of their last meeting and my heart sinks into my shoes. Fortunately, however, I remember that today is Wednesday and that Betty’s dancing class is held this afternoon, so I am able to refuse the invitation with conviction.

  Mrs. Benson says, “What a pity, I haven’t seen the dear child for a long time. Is she still as shy as ever?”

  This question is difficult to answer for Betty is not, and never was, shy. Her apparent bashfulness in Mrs. Benson’s presence is due to dislike and disapproval. (I am now in the position of the unfortunate man who was asked whether he had left off beating his wife). I review the situation hastily and decide that it is much better for Mrs. Benson to remain in ignorance of my daughter’s real feelings, and I am about to reply accordingly, when Mrs. Benson relieves me of the necessity to reply at all.

  “Well never mind, it can’t be helped,” says Mrs. Benson. “You must just come yourself, Hester. Tea is at four o’clock, and we can have a nice little chat,” and with that she disappears into Boots before I can think of an adequate excuse.

  Am just getting ready for the ordeal when Grace appears and announces that she has come to tea with me and to be cheered up. She is feeling extremely low and I am the only person who can cheer her. Reply that I would willingly cheer and sustain her with tea and conversation, if I were not trysted to tea with Mrs. Benson.

  Grace exclaims, “Mrs. Benson!” in tones of horror and disgust.

  I endeavour to rouse Grace’s better feelings by saying that the poor old thing is unhappy and requires cheering every bit as much as she does, to which Grace replies with a rude word. Try to look shocked, but am obliged to laugh.

  We walk down the street together and part at Mrs. Benson’s gate with regret.

  Find a tall dark woman having tea with Mrs. Benson. She is clad in a loose brown garment and is hung about with Egyptian jewellery. Am introduced to her and discover that her name is Miss Browne Winters. She looks at me with an intent gaze and announces that we have met before. Am about to reply that I do not think I have had that pleasure when she continues that I may not remember but she remembers perfectly, it was in Toledo in the year twelve hundred and fifty-two. Begin to wonder whether Miss Browne Winters has escaped from the local lunatic asylum.

  “Some Souls have little or no recollection of previous existence,” declares Miss Browne Winters in bell-like tones, “but that need not necessarily indicate that they are New Souls. Sometimes a Soul, wrapped too closely in the meshes of the Present, loses contact with the Central Stream. One feels sorry for such a Soul for in losing such Contact, it loses the Best.”

  Feel inclined to reply that one life is about all I can cope with, and that sometimes even one life is a little too much, but Miss Browne Winters is so awe-inspiring that the words die upon my lips.

  Mrs. Benson then enquires as to the circumstances of our meeting and Miss Browne Winters, who has been awaiting this question, replies that she was Alphonso X, surnamed the Wise and that, amongst other activities too numerous to mention, she improved the Ptolomaic Planetary Tables. I then ask whether I helped her in this great and useful work, and she replies that I was not far enough advanced, but was merely one of her mother’s women. “Yes,” says Miss Browne Winters, assuming a positively Delphian manner and drawing her long thin fingers across her eyes. “Yes, I remember it all . . . it is coming back clearly. I was interested in you for a time, but only in a temporal and superficial way. There has never been any Real Spiritual Bond between us.”

  Mrs. Benson looks a trifle alarmed, (perhaps she is afraid that her remarkable guest is about to define the nature of the temporal bond which existed between Alphonso X and his mother’s handmaid) and she plunges into the conversation somewhat clumsily, “But it was the Great Pyramid you were talking about,” she exclaims.

  “Ah yes, the Great Pyramid!” agrees Miss Browne Winters. “That Marvellous Monument of Antiquity!”

  “You were telling me about it,” Mrs. Benson reminds her, and adds for my benefit, “Miss Browne Winters knows all about the Great Pyramid.”

  This seems rather a large order, but Miss Browne Winters does not disclaim her knowledge; she smiles a trifle wearily and says, “Ah yes, the Great Pyramid. Who should know more about it than I?”

  “Were you there when it was built?” I enquire, for this seems the most likely explanation of her omniscience.

  “I was there,” she replies. “In fact I helped in the building of it. My duty was to measure the stones before they were put in place. How vividly I remembered it all when my father and I were in Egypt last year! How strange it was to lay my hand on a stone and to remember the placing of it! So vivid were my recollections that sometimes I had difficulty in coming back to the present . . . the Present was overlaid by the Past. My father became quite anxious about me and would not allow me out of his sight.” Miss Browne Winters laughs and adds apologetically, “He was afraid I might Go Back.”

  Miss Browne Winters continues for some time in this strain, and builds up a picture of herself wandering about beneath a burning sun, living two lives at the same time, her unfortunate parent trailing after her. . . .

  Eventually Miss Browne Winters says she must go. She rises and pronounces some words in a foreign language and declares that it is an Arabic blessing and means “May Allah protect you and give you children, numbered as the desert sands.”—Feel that some other blessing might have been more suitable for Mrs. Benson and myself, as Mrs. Benson is too old to start a family of such proportions, and I find my family of two more than enough to feed, clothe and educate.

  When she has gone, the conversation descends to lower levels, in fact it descends very low indeed. Mrs. Benson says that Miss Browne Winters is an interesting woman, but somewhat tiring, and now we can have a nice chat. She saw me with young Mrs. MacDougall the other day—how kind it is of me to take an interest in her, as, of course, we can have nothing in common!

  Am aware that Mrs. Benson does not mean what she says, but something quite different and rather nasty.

  “It is such a pity,” continues Mrs. Benson, “such a pity when a young and promising officer like Jack MacDougall gets caught by a woman like that . . . No, don’t interrupt, Hester, I know how loyal you are, but you and I, who have the Interests of the Regiment so much at heart, can discuss these things quite calmly.”

  I am feeling far from calm—in fact I am seething—and as I can find no effective rejoinder, I offer the bald statement that Grace is my friend. Mrs. Benson takes no notice of this, but proceeds to give me a resume of Jack’s history, qualifications, and parentage. His father commanded the Regiment and was “a dear friend of Colonel Benson’s”; his mothe
r was one of the Sinclairs of Auchenduchan; and his grandfather—a particularly fine man—was also in the Regiment and won his D.S.O. in South Africa . . . “Jack had the ball at his feet and he threw it away,” declares Mrs. Benson sorrowfully.

  (Feel that Jack should really have kicked the ball, but manage to refrain from saying so.)

  “Sad!” says Mrs. Benson. “Very sad indeed. I have been talking to Colonel Carter about it and he agrees . . . he has promised to do what he can for Jack, to get him out of the rut, and give him an opportunity to show what he is made of.”

  This sounds somewhat sinister, and I feel bound to enquire what sort of opportunity Jack is to be given. Mrs. Benson says it is not our business to interfere, and that Colonel Carter is quite capable of running the depot without advice from anyone.

  Once again Mrs. Benson’s words convey an opposite meaning. She has been interfering—or trying to interfere. She has been “getting at” Herbert Carter and urging him to send Jack to France—and for all I know she may have succeeded in her endeavour. Soldiers are soldiers, of course, and must go where they are sent, but it would be cruel to send Jack now, with the baby due to arrive at any moment. If the 1st Battalion needs a captain, it is within Herbert Carter’s power to send whom he pleases . . . and I can scarcely believe that Herbert who is a kind-hearted creature (though admittedly a trifle flabby) would think of sending Jack . . .

  Am so busy with these thoughts that I lose the drift of Mrs. Benson’s conversation and come to myself to find her gazing at me with a baleful expression and obviously awaiting a reply.

  “It is a bad habit to allow one’s thoughts to wander,” says Mrs. Benson firmly. “A very bad habit indeed, and one that is apt to grow upon one unless it is checked.”

  THURSDAY 7TH MARCH

  Spend a miserable night endeavouring to weigh up Herbert Carter’s character—his kind heart against his undoubted flacidity. Dawn breaks and confirms my decision that Something Must Be Done. I hurry Betty off to school, rush down to the Barracks and demand to see the C.O. on urgent business. The Orderly Room Sergeant is a personal friend of mine, so I experience no difficulty in penetrating the defences. Herbert obviously is surprised to see me, but he invites me to be seated and asks what he can do for me. Somehow or other Herbert seems quite different from his usual genial self, much more dignified and unapproachable. I remember that he is the C.O., that he is commanding a large body of troops and that his responsibilities must be enormous. My courage ebbs rapidly.

  Herbert says, “Come on Hester. What is it? You aren’t frightened of me, are you?”

  I reply, “Yes, I’m terrified. You’re so grand and important, Herbert.”

  At this Herbert laughs and says that sometimes he is quite frightened of himself, and it’s a funny world.

  The ice thus broken I take the plunge and explain that I had to see him because there are rumours of Jack MacDougall being sent abroad, but that I hope he won’t have to go until after the baby has arrived.

  Herbert looks rather taken aback and says, “How on earth did you hear that?” But I am not to be drawn and reply firmly that it does not matter how I heard it as long as it isn’t true.

  “Are you sure he doesn’t want to go?” asks Herbert.

  To which I reply “Would you have wanted to go and leave Mamie to have her first baby?”

  Herbert says, “No, of course not . . . and as a matter of fact I didn’t intend to send Jack. They want a captain and a subaltern and I meant to send Wilson and Taylor. Then I happened to hear from—from a reliable source that Jack was anxious to go.” He hesitates for a moment and then continues, “You know, Hester, it’s not a bad thing for a young fellow to see some active service . . . Jack is a professional soldier and he’s keen and ambitious.”

  I am aware that all this is true. Tim was pleased when he received his orders. He was sorry to leave me, but he wanted to go—he was as excited as a child going to its first party.

  “Not now,” I say, and I find the greatest difficulty in saying it, for there is a lump in my throat which feels like a golf ball.

  “Well, perhaps not . . .” says Herbert doubtfully I am hesitating whether to leave it at that or to drive home my advantage, when Herbert goes on, “It’s very difficult for me. I want you to understand that.”

  “You can do what you like,” I point out.

  He smiles and replies, “Just imagine yourself in my shoes, Hester. The 1st Battalion asks for two officers and I’ve got to decide who’s to go. Sometimes the choice is obvious—in Tim’s case he was the only major available—but more often the choice lies between two or three fellows. I’ve got to decide. In one way they all want to go, and in another way none of them wants to . . . it isn’t easy.”

  My anger is melting now; I can feel it running out like thawed snow.

  He leans forward and continues, “So you see when Mrs. Benson said she happened to know that Jack was longing for Active Service . . .”

  “So it was Mrs. Benson!” I exclaim.

  “Well . . . in a way . . .” says Herbert uncomfortably. “I happened to meet her, you see, and—and she happened to say . . . and so I thought . . . but of course I don’t really let her interfere. You mustn’t think that. Of course we’ve got used to—er—thinking of her as the colonel’s wife, and—Oh curse it, you know what the old lady is like.”

  Yes, I know what she is like, but unfortunately the only word which describes her must not be allowed to pass my lips. I extricate myself from Herbert’s presence and walk home boiling with rage.

  FRIDAY 8TH MARCH

  I awake suddenly in the early hours of the morning and hear the horrible moaning of the Donford siren. The sound chills my blood, and, for a moment, I find myself incapable of movement. Then I pull myself together, leap out of bed, and rush round the house waking its inhabitants. This is our first night alarm, and I am not at all sure how my household will take it, but I find that I need not have worried. Everyone is perfectly calm. Annie has Betty up and dressed in half no time and Mrs. Fraser emerges from her room clad in a siren suit of enormous proportions and with her head swathed in a pink woollen scarf. We have already agreed that the brush cupboard (which is large and commodious and is situated under the stairs) is to be our Shelter. The brushes are flung out and rugs and cushions are fetched. Mrs. Fraser says that the windows in the house should be “opened a wee bit” and comes round to help me in the task.

  All is now ready, and we go into the brush cupboard and sit down.

  “We should have had it done,” says Mrs. Fraser. “We should have been prepared. It’s a daft-like thing not to be prepared.”

  Annie agrees and says she will scrub out the cupboard tomorrow.

  Mrs. Fraser says that will be fine, and the brushes can be kept in the kitchen cupboard. She will make room for them.

  I pinch my leg to see whether I am dreaming. Is this really Hester Christie sitting in the brush-cupboard in the middle of the night, waiting for a bomb to fall? The pinch hurts quite a lot, so I am forced to believe that I am awake. I look round at my companions and feel a strange impulse to laugh, but manage to stifle it at birth.

  We chat about various matters in a friendly manner. I have never liked Mrs. Fraser very much, and have been under the impression that Mrs. Fraser disliked me, but tonight I positively love the woman. She sits there, looking like something out of the Arabian Nights in her siren suit and her pink-swathed head, but she is as calm and as firm as a rock. After about half an hour, during which nothing whatever can be heard, Mrs. Fraser announces that she is going to infuse tea—Hitler or no—and we can just wait there till she brings it. I remonstrate with her, but without success. I feel that I ought to go with her and share the dangers of the kitchen, but Annie and Betty do not want to be left. Presently Mrs. Fraser returns with a tray of tea and biscuits and says she went out and had a look round, but there’s nothing to be seen.

  Betty remarks in a disappointed tone, “Perhaps they aren’t coming after all!�
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  She has scarcely spoken when we hear several dull thumps. It is a strange sound, for, although the thumps are not very loud, the house seems to shake slightly. It reminds me of an earthquake which occurred when Tim and I were in India.

  Betty says, “What’s that?” and Mrs. Fraser replies that it is the kitchen door banging.

  “But didn’t you shut it?” enquires Betty.

  “How could I?” says Mrs. Fraser. “I was carrying the tray and I’ve not got three hands on me.”

  This intrigues Betty and she asks whether Mrs. Fraser would like to have three hands, to which Mrs. Fraser replies in the affirmative.

  Betty says what would she do with three hands.

  Mrs. Fraser says, “There’s whiles I could do with six hands. They would be gey useful when I’m dishing up the dinner.”

  We now hear two more thumps, slightly louder than before, and Betty (who is no fool) says that she thinks they are bombs, and can she go out and see if there are any German aeroplanes about.

  Everyone replies in chorus that she must remain where she is.

  Nothing more happens and in another half hour the “All Clear” signal is heard and we all go back to bed. Betty is in great form and I can hear her asking Annie whether we can have another “Siren Party” soon.

  Annie calls me at the usual hour and I arise feeling as if I had had no sleep at all. Decide to let Betty sleep as long as possible—Annie agrees with this. I enquire whether Annie has heard whether any damage has been done, but everyone seems to be late this morning—even the butcher’s boy—so no news of the raid has come to Winfield.

  While I am having breakfast the telephone bell rings loudly, and Annie comes in with eyes like saucers, and says, “It’s Captain MacDougall, and will you come at once and speak to him.”

  I ask Annie what is the matter and she replies that she doesn’t know, but Captain MacDougall said it was very important and she thinks it is the Germans. She adds that the milk hasn’t come, nor the post neither . . . she wonders what has happened. . . .